CHAPTER X
HASSAN'S TOWER--AND THE COLONIAL OFFICE
Warden did not find Rabat so intolerable as the captain of the_Water Witch_ led him to believe. Its streets were more regular andcleaner, or less dirty, than those of the average Moorish town. Itspeople seemed to be devoted to commerce--probably because they arenot pure-blooded Moors, but of Jewish descent. That, at least, is theargument advanced by a man from Fez or Tafilat when he wants a heavierdowry with a Rabati bride.
From the roadstead, once the troublesome bar was crossed, the townlooked attractive. Its white houses were enshrined in pretty gardens.Orchards, vineyards, and olive-groves brightened the landscape. Tothe north, on the opposite bank of a swift river, cultivated slopesstretched their green and gold to the far-off Zemmur mountains. Apicturesque citadel, built by a renegade Englishman in the bad olddays, commanded the harbor, and a spacious landing-place showed thatthe Rabatis opposed no difficulties to the export of their Moroccoleather, carpets, Moorish slippers, and pottery.
The _Water Witch_ entered the river soon after dawn, and Warden wasassured that she would not be able to clear her shipments until nextforenoon at the earliest. He went ashore and was agreeably surprised atfinding quite a large number of British and other European merchants'offices near the quay, while the shields of several Vice-Consuls andConsular Agents bespoke some semblance of law and order.
In a word, Rabat looked settled and prosperous. It was utterly outof keeping with the picture conjured up by the tattoo marks made byDomenico Garcia on the skin of Tommaso Rodriguez. Still the HassanTower was no myth. It was pointed out to him by an Englishman who hadwalked to the wharf to watch the landing of the ship's boat.
Pausing only to buy a strong chisel in a native shop, Warden strolledat once in the direction of the tomb. He would neither delay his searchfor the ruby, nor give much time to it. If he failed to identify theexact spot described in the parchment, or was unable to discoveranything after a speedy examination, assuredly he would not spendseveral hours in tearing ancient masonry to pieces. Since leavingEngland, Warden had become a different man. Always a good-humoredcynic, he was now perilously near the less tolerable condition ofcynicism without good humor. Intellect began to govern impulse. Thoughhis brain was wearied with endeavor to find a reasonable explanationof events, he was almost convinced that Evelyn must at least havecommitted the indiscretion of gossiping about her adventures in theIsle of Wight. If only she had written! His heart kept harping onthat! Why had she flown away with her employers without ever a signthat her thoughts were with the man she loved?
He wondered if Peter Evans had found her. If so, there would be news atCape Coast Castle, for he had given his bankers explicit directions,and a member of the firm was a personal friend who would attend tocablegrams and letters.
The Hassan Tower stood on a height not far beyond the outermost citywall, Rabat being dignified with two lines of fortifications, built byChristian slaves centuries ago. Indeed, when Warden climbed the hill ofwhich it formed the pinnacle, he realized that it was a landmark shownon a chart he had examined the previous evening. Square and strong,built to defy destruction, and rearing its one hundred and fifty feetof exquisitely fretted stonework from a tangled undergrowth of stuntedvegetation, it seemed, in some proud and curiously subtle way, topromise the fulfilment of Domenico Garcia's bequest.
Great marble columns, many erect, but the majority overthrown,indicated the quadrangle of what was meant to be a gigantic mosque.Warden passed quickly through these and other ruins; he caught a hintof an aqueduct, looked into a deep excavation evidently designed as acistern, and then, with somewhat more rapid pulse-beat, and a certainawed wonderment dominating his mind, made straight for the causewaythat led to the "door three cubits from the ground."
To his chagrin, though the inclined plane itself might be ridden by aman on horseback, the arched door was solidly built up.
Here was an unforeseen check. It was one thing to be conscious of acooling of the ardor that vowed the adornment of Evelyn's fair handwith a "gem of great price," but it was none the less baffling andexasperating to be at the foot of the tower and meet an apparentlyinsuperable obstacle of this nature. Was he brought to Rabat by themost extraordinary series of events that could well have befallen him,only to find blind fate smiling maliciously? The thought was not to beborne. Somehow, anyhow, that tower must be entered, or the spirit ofthe hapless Garcia would haunt him for ever.
He looked around, thinking his Arabic would serve him in good steadwere there a goat-herder or other tender of flocks near at hand. But hewas quite alone on the tiny plateau. A couple of great storks which hadbuilt their nest on top of the tower looked down at him with wise eyes.Hundreds of pigeons fluttered about the summit or clung to the ridgesof fretted stone, while the only window visible above the doorway was ahundred feet from the base.
But a soldier knows that every position, however impregnable in front,may be turned from the flanks. Before formulating any method of attack,he decided to survey the stronghold from all points of view, and,because Garcia mentioned the "third window on the left," he went tothe left. On that side there were only two windows, each twenty feetor more above his head, and Warden was nearly six feet in height. Thenhe reflected that the Portuguese, writing his sorrowful legend "topleasure that loathly barbarian, M'Wanga, King of Benin," would surelycount from the inside of the tower.
On he went, noting each cranny and fissure in the weather-beaten mass,until he reached the opposite side. Here were three windows, and,most gratifying of discoveries, he saw that the Arabs had contrived ameans of entry and egress through the center window by scooping awaythe mortar between the huge blocks of granite used for the foundationstory. D?bris had accumulated close to the wall in such quantity thatthe window-sill was not more than fourteen feet from his eyes. To anactive, barefooted Moor, with toes and fingers like the talons of avulture, the climb would present no difficulty whatever. To a man whosenails were well kept, and whose toes would speedily be lacerated if notprotected by boots, the scaling of the rough wall was no child's play.But Warden began to crawl upwards without a moment's hesitation.
He knew that the ascent would be easy compared with the return, whilea fall meant the risk of a bad sprain, so he memorized each suitablefoothold as he mounted, and often paused to make sure of the deepestniches. It must be confessed that no thought of other danger enteredinto his calculations. His military training should have made him morewary, but what had either experience or text-book to do with thisquest of a jewel, hidden for safety in a Moorish tomb so many years ago?
And he was armed, too, quite sufficiently to account for any prowlingthieves who might be tempted to attack a stranger. A service revolverreposed in one pocket, and the chisel in another--but there did notseem to be the remotest probability of human interference; he had notseen a living thing save the birds since he breasted the hill.
When his hands rested on the broken stonework of the window he wasnaturally elated. Soon his eyes drew level with it, and he could peerinto the interior. It was all one great apartment, not lofty, though anarched roof gave an impression of height. A staircase led to the upperstories, but it was broken. Desolation reigned supreme. Some startledpigeons flew out with loud clutter of wings at the sight of him. Thenhe raised himself steadily up, and leaped inside, while the wallsechoed the noise of his spring with the hollow sound of sheer emptiness.
There was plenty of light, but, after a first hasty glance, he gave nofurther scrutiny to his surroundings. Were he spying out the land inan enemy's country, he would have looked at the littered floor to findtraces of any recent visitor. Most certainly he would not have begunoperations in Garcia's hiding-place without first visiting the upperrooms. But he was too eager and excited to be prudent. Evelyn seemedto be very near him at that moment. He remembered how her impetuousattempt to throw the calabash into the Solent had led to the discoveryof Garcia's amazing manuscript, and there was the spice of true romancein the fact that now, litt
le more than two months later, he shouldactually be standing in "the tomb of the infidel buried outside thewall" of Rabat. His fingers itched to be at work. He was spurred byan intense curiosity. He felt that the finding of the ruby would lendcredence to an otherwise unbelievable story. It connected Oku and thewild Benu? of two and a half centuries ago with Cowes and the Solent inRegatta Week. It made real the personality of a long-forgotten tyrant,who perchance lived again to-day in one of those three negroes he hadseen in Figuero's company. No wonder, then, that Warden was impatient.Ten seconds after he had reached the interior of the building, he wasbent over the "deep crack between the center stones" of the windowdescribed by Garcia.
There could be no doubting now which window the scribe meant. It stoodnext to that by which Warden had entered, and, sure enough, just inthat place the stones were more than ordinarily wide apart. The word"crack" was ambiguous. It might be applied more accurately to a breakin one particular stone, but Warden was no adept in the Portuguesetongue, and the dictionary-maker might be translating "interstice,"or "crevice," or "division," when he wrote "crack." At any rate, the"center stones" were sound, but the mortar between them was partlyeaten away, and Warden saw at once that in order to make good hissearch one of the stones must be prised out bodily. A crowbar wouldhave ended the job in a minute when once the chisel had cut a leverage,but, in the absence of a crowbar, he set to work with the chisel.
The mortar became flint-like when the deodorizing influence ofthe weather ceased to make itself felt. Nevertheless, the amateurhouse-breaker labored manfully. Half an hour's persistent chipping andtwisting of the tool was rewarded by a sullen loosening of the stone.
Then he lifted it out of its bed, and there, nestling between it andits fellow, hidden beneath a layer of dust and feathers, lay a ring!
Now, Domenico Garcia spoke of a "ruby," not of a ring, but it needed noskilled eye to detect the cause of that seeming discrepancy. The ringwas a crude affair, made of gold, it is true, but fashioned with roughstrength merely to provide a safe means of carrying the great, darkstone held in its claws. Garcia did not waste words. To him the ringwas naught, so why mention it?
The gold was discolored, of course, and the ruby did not reveal itsred splendor until Warden had cleansed it with his handkerchief andbreathed on it repeatedly to soften the dirt deposited on its brightfacets by thousands of rainstorms. Then it was born again before hiseyes. With a thrill of pity rather than gratification he gazed onits new and glowing life. "Friend, I am many marches from Rabat butfew from death!" said the man who placed it there, thinking thatperchance he "might escape." Now his very bones were as the dust whichhad shrouded it during all those years, yet the wondrous fire in itsheart shone forth as though it had left the lapidary's bench butyesterday. Warden even smiled sadly when he realized that, no matterhow his wooing fared, such a huge gem could never shine on EvelynDane's slim finger. It was large enough to form the centerpiece of somestately necklace or tiara. He knew little about the value of preciousstones, but this ruby was the size of a large marble. He had once seena diamond that weighed twenty-four carats, and the ruby was much thelarger of the two. He fancied he had read somewhere that a flawlessruby was of considerably higher intrinsic worth than a diamond ofthe same dimensions. The diamond he had in mind was priced at threethousand pounds. If, then, this ruby were flawless, its appearance inEngland would create something of a sensation.
And Garcia's story was true--that was the most astounding part of thebusiness. The magnificent jewel winked and blinked in the sunlight. Itmight almost be alive, and telling him in plain language that the godsdo not lead men into strange paths without just cause.
Suddenly he caught a blood-red flash that reminded him of theuncanny gleam in the eyes of the face on the gourd. The thought wasdisquieting, but he laughed.
"I am becoming a mere bundle of nerves," he said aloud. "The sooner Iget soaked with quinine the fitter I shall be. It must be the malariain my system that makes me see things. Really, the proper thing to donow is to give that beastly mask to the head ju-ju man at Oku. Then itwill be off my hands, and he will own the boss fetish of the whole WestCoast."
He was about to pocket the ring when the question of its subsequentdisposal occurred to him. It was such a remarkable object that any onewho saw it could not fail to question him as to its history. Underexisting circumstances, he did not court inquiry in that shape, and thequeer notion came that, in all likelihood, its prior owner carried itslung round his neck.
"Yes, by Jove, and the cord strangled him," murmured Warden.Nevertheless, not being in the least superstitious, he might haveadopted that plan of concealing it if he possessed a stout piece ofcord or strong ribbon. But his pockets contained neither one nor theother, and a sharp pang came with the recollection that, in a case ofsimilar need not so long ago, Evelyn's hussif held a neat coil of tapethat would have suited his purpose exactly.
Inside his waistcoat, however, was a secret pocket for carrying papermoney. It was provided with a flap and a button, and would serveadmirably as a hiding-place until he was able to entrust the ruby to abank for transference to London. So there it went, making a little lumpover his heart, and reminding him constantly that Domenico Garcia hadnot deceived him.
He was about to climb down again when his glance fell on the displacedstone. As a tribute to poor Garcia's memory, he put it back in itsbed, and even took the trouble to pour a few handfuls of dust andloose mortar into the joints, so that none might know it had ever beenremoved. While thus occupied, his attention was momentarily drawn toa pair of storks circling lazily above the tower. He wondered if theywere the same placid couple that had watched him earlier. No bird ismore wide-awake than the stork, despite its habitual air of sleepyindifference, and Warden fancied that the noise he made must havedisturbed the two sentinels on the top of the building.
The hill-side was absolutely deserted. Far below nestled the whitemass of the town, its long, low, whitewashed rectangles broken onlyby clumps of trees and an occasional dome or minaret. Near the quaylay the _Water Witch_. Her cranes were busy, two strings of coolieswere rushing back and forth across a broad gangway, and the first matewas directing operations from the bridge. Warden smiled. He had heardthe flow of language at the "Chief's" command when some incident onship-board demanded the reading of the Riot Act, and he could wellimagine the way in which those scampering Arabs were being incited tostrenuous effort.
There was no mistaking the malice _Page 183_]
It was peaceful up here in the tower--so cool and remote from the noisylife of the port that he was tempted to linger. But if he would regainthe shelter of some caf? in the town ere the sun became unbearably hot,he must be on the move. So, with a sigh for the unhappy Garcia's fate,and a farewell glance at the vaulted room which had witnessed thatby-gone tragedy, and perhaps many another, he began the descent. Thanksto the precautions taken during the climb, he found no great difficultyin placing his toes in the right niches. He was already below the levelof the window, and was halting with both feet wedged into a broadercrevice than usual while he changed his hand hold, when something,whether mere intuition or a slight sound, he never afterward knew,caused him to look straight up.
Leaning over the top of the ruin, and in a direct line above his head,was a Moor of fantastic appearance. A blue cotton garment of vividhue seemed to have lent its dye to the man's face and hair. Had hebeen soused in a bath of indigo he could not have been colored morecompletely. Though this extraordinary apparition was fully one hundredand thirty feet above Warden's head, there was no mistaking the malicethat gleamed from the dark eyes gazing down on the Nazarene. Undersuch conditions thought is quick, and Warden was sure that he hadunwittingly invaded the sanctuary of a Mohammedan fanatic. He wasminded to whip out the revolver and fire a shot that would at leastscare this strange being back into his eyrie. But a British senseof fair play stopped him. The blue man, howsoever wild-looking, hadnot interfered with or molested him in any way. He himself was theintruder
. The fact that he was undeniably startled did not justify theuse of a bullet, even for scaring purposes. The best thing to do wasto reach the ground as speedily as might be, risking a jump when hewas low enough to select a particular stone on which to alight. Hisdominant feeling at the moment was one of pique that he had failed tointerpret correctly the flight of the storks. If the zealot on top ofthe tower meant mischief it would have been far better to have met himin one of the upper rooms than to be at his mercy while clinging like afly to the face of the wall.
He was within ten feet of the pile of rough stones, and was about todrop on one larger than its fellows--in fact, he was already in theair, having sprung slightly outward, when a crushing blow on his headand left shoulder flung him violently on to the very slab of granitehe was aiming for. The shock was so violent that he felt no pain.Consciousness was acute for a fraction of a second. He understood thata heavy stone had fallen or been dropped purposely from the summitof the tower, and that his change of position, helped perhaps by thearched crown of his pith hat, had prevented it from striking directlyon top of his head. But that was all. He lay there, with his backpropped awkwardly against the tower, staring up at the sky. He sawnothing but the bright dome of heaven. It seemed to be curiously near,and its glowing bounds were closing in on him with the speed of light.Then the veil fell, and there was merciful darkness.
Consternation reigned in Rabat next morning. The Captain of the _WaterWitch_ began the disturbance over night, but when daylight broughtno tidings of the missing Englishman, the British Vice-Consul talkedmost unfeelingly of a visit by the West Coast Squadron. A worried andanxious Bey, well aware that Morocco had troubles in plenty withoutRabat adding to the store, protested that the Nazarene must have beenspirited away without human agency. The Bey was not listened to, sohe tried honestly to find out what had become of Warden. The onlyascertainable facts were that the Giaour had bought a chisel, and wasseen going to the tower of Hassan, the way to which was shown to himby one of his own countrymen. The hour was early, soon after sunrise.Since then he had seemingly vanished off the face of the earth. TheBey's myrmidons told how they had searched the Tower, and found thatthe Giaour had climbed into its interior. He had used the chisel anddisplaced a stone, apparently without object. But the place was nowquite empty, though some one had ground corn and millet recently in anupper chamber.
Now, the Bey knew quite well that the Blue Man of El Hamra made theTower his headquarters when he visited Rabat periodically to collectsubscriptions for the Jehad that was to drive every foreigner out ofthe sacred land of the Moors. But he kept silent on that matter, for hefeared the Blue Man even more than the British Fleet. Nevertheless, hecaused inquiries to be made, though no one had met the tinted prophetof late.
In a country where there are no roads, nor any actual governmentbeyond the sphere of each chief town, official zeal does not travelfar. The _Water Witch_ sailed to Cape Coast Castle, and reported thedisappearance of Mr. "Alfred Williams" to an officer who came out tomeet her in the Governor's own surf-boat. A cruiser hastened to Rabat,and trained a gun on the principal palace, whereupon the Bey wentaboard in person to explain that none could have made more genuineeffort than he to find the lost Nazarene, either dead or alive. Andperforce he was believed. Even the British Vice-Consul could not chargehim with negligence, though not one word had he said to any Europeanconcerning the Blue Man of El Hamra.
The cruiser flitted back to Cape Coast Castle, and thence to Lagos, andthere was much wonderment in the small circle that knew the truth. Yetno man is indispensable, whether in West Africa or London, and anotherDeputy Commissioner was gazetted for the special duty of dealing withnative unrest in the Benu? River district. The facts were communicatedto Whitehall, and an official from the Colonial Office called on anUnder Secretary in the Foreign Office to explain why Captain Forbes wasacting in the capacity for which Captain Arthur Warden seemed to be sopeculiarly fitted.
"It is a queer business," said the Under Secretary. "What do you makeof it?"
"I believe he was worried about a woman," began the other.
"What? In Rabat?"
"No, no, in London. Only this morning I received a letter from aMrs. Laing, who says she is exceedingly anxious to ascertain CaptainWarden's address. Now, Lady Hilbury wrote two days ago with the sameobject, and, of course, I returned a polite message to the effect thathe was engaged on Government service."
"Mrs. Laing!" mused the Under Secretary. He unlocked a diary, andran back through its pages. "I thought I remembered the name," hecontinued. "She was staying with the Baumgartners at Lochmerig beforethey went to Hamburg in their yacht."
He was silent for a few seconds. His nails seemed to need instantexamination. Apparently satisfied by the scrutiny, he went on:
"I rather liked that youngster. He struck me as the sort of man whowould go far. Have you replied to Mrs. Laing?"
"No."
"Then please ask her to come here next Tuesday about three o'clock.Just quote her letter, and allow it to be assumed that her inquiryconcerning Captain Warden may be answered. I hope you don't mind mystepping in in a matter affecting your Department?"
The Colonial man laughed.
"My dear fellow," he said, "I have a whole regiment of lady visitorsand correspondents whom I shall gladly hand over to you."
Thus it came to pass that Rosamund's furs and frills graced the samechair in the Foreign Office that Warden had sat in when he interviewedthe Under Secretary. She was charmingly anxious in manner. Though ofhigh rank in the Government, the Under Secretary was young enough tobe impressionable; he was clearly a dandy; such men are the easiest tosubjugate.
"In the first place, Mrs. Laing," he said, when she explained herearnest wish to communicate at once with Captain Warden, "you will notmisunderstand me if I ask what measure of urgency lies behind yourbusiness with him. We officials, you know, like to wrap ourselves ina cloak of mystery with red tape trimmings. Yet I promise you I shallmatch your candor if possible."
"Well--perhaps I ought to begin by saying that--if not exactlyengaged--Captain Warden and I are very dear to each other. We wereengaged once, years ago. But I was young. I was forced into marriagewith another, who is now dead."
Rosamund made this ingenuous confession with the necessary hesitancyand downward eye-glances. The Under Secretary was sympathetic, anddelighted, and envious of Captain Warden's good fortune. There could beno doubt about these things, because he said them.
"That being so, I know a good deal of his private affairs," saidRosamund demurely. "I knew, for instance, that he might be summonedto West Africa at any moment, but he is such a scrupulously preciseman where duty is concerned that he would actually go away withouttelling me anything about it if ordered not to take any one into hisconfidence."
"Something of the kind has happened," admitted the Under Secretary.
"Ah, then, he really is in Africa, and if I write----?"
"I am sorry, but I fear I have misled you. He is not in Nigeria. Whenlast I heard of him he was at Rabat."
"Where is that?" she cried, genuinely surprised.
"On the West Coast of Morocco."
"But what is he doing there?"
The Under Secretary pressed the tips of his fingers closely together.
"It is difficult to say," he replied.
"Surely you will tell me. I have a right to know," she pleaded. "Iunderstand the position on the Benu? River. I am the daughter of a WestAfrican Governor. I am one of the few women in England who can graspthe seriousness of any plot which brings together the men of Oku andthe trusted confidant of a meddlesome foreign potentate. Captain Wardenwas sent to the Protectorate to carry out your instructions, and thatis the very reason I wish to write to him. I have news of the utmostimportance."
"Connected with the sailing of the _Sans Souci_ from Hamburg?"
The question was so unexpected that Rosamund looked at the UnderSecretary with more shrewdness than her fine eyes had displayedhitherto. He was making a little c
ircle of dots with a pencil on ablotting-pad. Neither by voice nor manner did he display any surpriseat her reference to the men of Oku.
"Yes, that is one of the items," she said.
"And the others?"
"But you are telling me nothing," she pouted.
"Forgive me. I hate the necessity that imposes restraint. Now, Mrs.Laing, enlighten me on one point, and I shall acquaint you withsuch few details of Captain Warden's recent movements as are in mypossession. What interest had he in Rabat?"
"I--really--don't know."
The protest was honest. This fashionable lady was speaking the truth.
"Who, in your opinion, might know?" he persisted.
Rosamund was not prepared for that. Her mind flew instantly to EvelynDane. Of course she would not mention the girl's name; the mere thoughtof Evelyn cast a shadow over her mobile face.
"I haven't the faintest notion," she said.
The accompanying smile was forced, and the Under Secretary was not inthe least deceived.
"Of course, if you cannot tell me why Captain Warden should go ashoreat Rabat no one can, I suppose," and Rosamund caught the pleasing hintof her dominance in all that affected the man she loved.
"You keep on referring to this place that I have never before heardof," she cried. "Is he still at Rabat? I have ascertained that he isnot at Lagos, or in Southern Nigeria, because I cabled for information."
"When last I heard of Captain Warden he was at Rabat," said the UnderSecretary. "He is not there now. Indeed, I cannot tell you where heis. If the earth had opened and swallowed him, he could not havedisappeared more completely."
Rosamund gasped, and was somewhat inclined to storm, but not anothersyllable would the Under Secretary add to his amazing statement, thoughhe undertook to communicate with her immediately when news of Warden'swhereabouts reached him. In the meantime, she had to be content withknowledge that was no knowledge, and that only added to her perplexity.On the way to the hotel she stopped her carriage at a map-seller's andbought a map of Morocco, and a book which revealed many things aboutRabat, but no one thing calculated to explain why Warden had gone there.
In some sense, the Under Secretary was more puzzled than Rosamund. Heturned to his notes and pored over them. One paragraph stood out boldly.
"Captain Warden, when at Cowes, met a young lady, Miss Evelyn Dane,engaged as companion to Baumgartner's daughter. He took her in a dinghyto the _Sans Souci_, and this slight chance led to the discovery thatthe yacht was in charge of a shore watchman."
The Under Secretary actually rumpled his hair with those immaculatefingers of his.
"I am lost in a fog," he confessed ruefully. "Mrs. Laing is _not_engaged to Warden--Lady Hilbury herself told me so only this morning.Warden is the last man alive to discuss Government affairs with Mrs.Laing or any other woman. Why, then, does she pretend that he did thevery thing he did not do? And who is this girl, Evelyn Dane, to whom hetelegraphed from Ostend and London before sailing in the _Water Witch_?Can _she_ shed light on the dark places of Rabat? It is worth trying.The _Sans Souci_ arrives at Madeira to-morrow. I shall instruct someone to call on Evelyn Dane, and find out how far she is mixed up in thewretched muddle. Confound Rabat, and the Benu?, and the men of Oku, andmay Baumgartner be blistered! I shall not get a day's hunting beforethe frost sets in."